


You Are Your Own

by scarlett_the_seachild



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Catharsis, Cocaine, Connor is an asshole, Drug Addiction, Drug-Induced Sex, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Break Up, Recreational Drug Use, Sickfic, Stress, Tragedy/Comedy, Tragicomedy, Vomiting, WARNING: pretentious punctuation, adventure and humour are usually my jam with occasional mild masochism, but with more suffering, essentially "i am drunk and i know you hate me but i need you to pick me up" au, hamartia, i do honestly and sincerely apologise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor trips, falls, and can't stop. One night he falls too far and, desperate, calls Oliver. They have not spoken in a year.</p><p>Set some time after season 2. Please read the tags before reading this, it is the literal worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Your Own

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this is the most horrible thing I've ever written. I realise some of you have nerves of steel but even so, there are some pretty heavy issues in this and it was not my intention to sugarcoat. Secondly, I wrote this partially as a means of personal catharsis so if any of the characters act in a way you feel might be OOC, there is a good chance you're looking at someone else.
> 
> Title comes from this quote: "Creon is not your downfall, no, you are your own." -- Tiresias, Oedipus Rex.

In Connor’s opinion the toilets in Revs are the best place to hang out: in the toilets everyone is either polite or inoffensive and no one gives two shits that you’re bent over a crapper chundering out bright orange blocks of sweet potato, not in the same way that if you’d resorted to your old favourite, here being, behind a pot plant. In the toilets there’s a sort of safety in knowing that the inside of you  _belongs_ here, hell it’s what the place is built for; there’s a warmth here and you just know it’s less about the compact closeness of the urinals and more about the pressing weight of humanity summarised perfectly in a dirty ceramic bowl and the inside of a heaving stomach.

yeah in Connor’s opinion the toilets are fucking mint.

Connor might be a little biased though because this is the only relief he’s gotten all night from the swirling, burning vortex that is the result of incalculable Manhattans and other things which are, you know, more calculable. Yeah ok he’ll accept this particular crapper could be a little cleaner, he’s not 100% digging the festival aesthetic but good lordthe tiles feel good against his skin (damp, feverish, unsettlingly yellowish in tone. how does one get jaundice?) he’s not been feeling his 100% perkiest for a good few hours now and really there’s only one good reason for being on all fours, unfortunately involving the ejection of another kind of bodily fluid.

if someone were to ask Connor whether he wouldn’t rather being anywhere else, Connor would give the matter some thought and remember that there is a pretty decent kebab shop, like, half a block away.

actually Connor would tell you to fuck off.

The sad thing is it wasn’t even his idea to come out tonight. Somewhere downstairs surfing lazily on planetary rings suspended by jӓger bomb shot glasses and House music a friend, Doug or Dan grinds a mediocre package against a pert backside belonging to a nameless grinning face, the hand that’s not groping at a back pocket pumping in time to the throbbing, oddly synthetic beat. And that’s fine bro, like, do what you want here is not a man to begrudge; he’s been there, done that, worn the t-shirt and sold it for an 8th of weed but he is kind of confused at why Dan or Doug bothered asking him to come out if he didn’t have sex as an endgame.

Oh right, because Dan is a prick.

Connor wipes his mouth and straightens up. Out of the corner of his eye he catches his reflection in the cracked mirror, even with his features slightly distorted by a smudge of grease smeared across the glass and that lovely sweaty sheen that says “bro, I have just expunged my motherfucking diaphragm” he still looks pretty good. At least, that’s what Muscles in the corner seems to think. Connor gives him the old eye right back in a way that’s totally cool and nonchalant and not at all translating to “do I even have a digestive system anymore, like, who the fuck knows man not me”. Whatever, it seems to be working because within a minute Muscles is all done and dusted with the hand-dryer and is making his way over.

“Decent spot huh?”

“I’ve been in worse.”

“I bet. Not seen you here before though.”

“No?”

“Nah. Face like yours I’d have remembered.”

Connor has spent a lot of time and energy on perfecting the corner lift half-smirk. Humpr ratings be damned, he knows it’s by far his sexiest move.

Names are exchanged, although predictably Muscles’ goes through one ear and out the other and actually _actually_ this is not wholly Connor’s fault, like ok he accepts that he’s a dick but he’s willing to bet his recent diagnosis might have more to do with his horrific short term memory than his stellar personality.

Or you know, maybe the fact that he doesn’t actually _give_ a monkey’s fuck _._

“Fancy a line?”

“Sure man, why not.”

“You got a card?”

He hands the man his credit card which he understands objectively is a less-than-safe move but sort of in the same way that he understands you shouldn’t stand near microwaves and red meat will probably kill you. And also, like, free coke. Well probably not _that_ free, he corrects himself, noticing how Muscles’ eyes flit hungrily over the tendons sticking from his neck as he bends down to snort the thin line of powder up one nostril but then again this is America, is it not.

This is America.

his nose is streaming even as his head slams against the back of the wall, silver spots popping like fairy lights at the corner of his vision his nostrils burnand the back of his throat itches in a way that’s not wholly unpleasant, he can see steam erupting in front of him, the breath of a dragon or a raging scarlet bull. Who knew the flames of Hell tickled? Connor feels himself slip an inch or two down the wall and his mouth falls open one wrist pinned to the cold tiles against his back the other hooked feebly round a sturdy neck, thickset with ligament. He grits his teeth against the stubbled jaw pressing against the crook of his own; odd, there used to be nothing like a bit of sandpaper to get him off and now all he can think about are oozing razor bumps.

All thoughts disappear however as a cock like a sledgehammer nudges and then slams his entrance. Queue more steam, hissing like a train from many funnels and Connor’s legs are spread up parallel to his hips, his jeans flapping behind Muscles like a superhero’s cape. A few rough, rhythmic movements interjected with wet pants and high-pitched breathy gasps and the flat, packing sound of balls slapping against thigh, Connor bites his lip against the burn hard enough to draw blood. there are tears in his eyes the salt mixes with the iron give back to your body make yourself a healthy detox and chug every morning with beetroot and kale. He can feel the shift of hard muscle under his nails, contracting beneath their thin film of sweaty cotton. A wet half-kiss, more teeth than tongue is smeared some spot below his left ear, it leaves an asteroid belt ring of glittering saliva.

“Oh Jesus, Oh Christ you fuck, Oh yes, fucking Jesus yes,” poetry drops off Muscles’ eloquent tongue.

Connor wonders a little indignantly at why they had to drag Jesus into this. The poor dude cannot be blamed for everything.

Muscles comes with all the force of a backhoe loader, shooting off in thick ropey reams before going limp. A fist moves aggressively between Connor’s sodden thighs and he sighs in relief as his own spunk joins the pool of ominous liquids on the floor beneath them. Muscles crashes onto him breathing his wet mouth heavily into Connor’s jaw and leaving a thin trail of spit as Connor pushes him gently away, bending down to hitch up his jeans off the disgusting floor. He stretches a little in discomfort, the guy pulled out a little too quickly and he can feel his spunk gluing together his arse cheeks (incidentally reminding him of shop class in eleventh grade another story entirely we won’t get distracted) he reaches into one of the cubicles and tears off a fat wad of toilet paper to clean himself off. Muscles is buckling himself back in and is already starting to look embarrassed, what is that, a new record? Usually it takes at least a minute for the other party’s self-hatred to start kicking in. Connor gives him the old Sherlock eye, squinting beneath strands of sweat plastered forelock, yeah he knows the type: next morning Muscles will burst into work with his hands in his overalls and boast to his friends about some tight little blonde bird he fucked against crisp, Pottery Barn sheets and all his friends will be like “BROOO” and then he’ll come home wank into his hand and cry.

So sure, Connor knows the type but contrary to popular belief he is not a complete asshat and he does feel a twinge of sympathy as he watches Muscles tuck himself back in as if it were a gun or drug money in there and not his own meat. But Connor has neither the time nor the patience to comfort closet bromosexuals, like dude, I get it, you hate yourself. The best he can really do is offer the guy an awkward clap on the shoulder and shuffle on out of that joint, trying not to wince from the pain in his buttcheeks.

His head is buzzing as he walks down the stairs and the substance currently pumping through his veins feels electric – the drugs are well and truly kickin’. Against his will his head starts bobbing up and down to the powerful bass, he blinks and suddenly there are lights everywhere flashing idiosyncratically in and out of time to whatever song of loss and woe is currently blasting: _What do you mean? Better make up your mind, what do you mean?_ As a purple neon beam falls onto his chest he notices dustings of white powder and whatever else streaked across his shirt and for some reason this unfortunately reminds him of baking as a child and getting absolutely covered in flour and mom’s screeches of pure anguish “I told you to wear an apron, Connor! An apron, Connnoooor for _fuck’s sakeee-_

lol Connor never wears an apron.

“Hey Connor!” a voice yells out from above the mass of foggy eyes and gyrating hips “Connor, over here!”

Oh look, it’s Dan the prick. Connor ignores him and grabs a shot from the bar instead scowling as the vodka (he assumes??? like who really knows??) sears through his throat. It’s not like Dan/Doug’s a bad guy but come on, who _asks_ a dude out if not for sex like, what else has this relationship really been building up to they are not close and he gave him the old eye in the taxi earlier he could swear to _God_. A thought strikes Connor cold as the gin now clutched in his sweaty palm: what if Dan/Doug’s not gay?

Wait, no, that’s impossible. Connor doesn’t have straight friends outside of work don’t be dumb. 

Speak of the devil. Connor’s phone screen lights up, blossoming with a little blue bubble.

 **Michaela:** Where are you? Are you okay?

ahhhh sweet, straight Michaela. Connor replies with a double thumbs up because yeah, ok, maybe he is that much of a dick after all so sue him. There’s a little voice at the back of his head reminding him that he was supposed to be somewhere tonight…studying or planning a homicide or whatever it is kids do these days.

 **Connor:** fuckn yh blad all good in da hood fo shizzle ma dixzzle

 **Michaela:** …

 **Michaela:** Are you drunk??

 **Michaela:** You fucking asshole. Laurel has been going spare, she thought something awful had happened. Or that you’d gone to the you-know-what.

haaaaaa “you-know-what”. Michaela is so good at code.

 **Connor:** fck da popo

 **Michael:** …

 **Michaela:** Asshole. Don’t you dare call me in the morning.

Ok princess. I guess I’ll just suffer in the shadow of my loneliness instead lol. Connor snickers and replies with many crying emoticons ending with a rainbow and a unicorn then he realises that the screen reads “Active 6…7…minutes ago” and like, stops.

It is getting kind of oppressive in here. Connor dances with a few guys and his tongue dances with a few more and when he starts to _smell_ these people on him he decides it’s time to grab some air. He downs another glass and detaches himself from the octopus-like grip of some tactile young thing to toddle outside being careful to move in a way that is least offensive to his tender derrière. The cool air hits him like a slap in the face and Connor raises his gaze up towards the Heavens where all the little angels who have long achieved their wings stick their middle fingers up at him. Well fuck you angels, who asked you anyway. Connor is about to shake his fist up at the little bastards when he is distracted by a tap on the shoulder, he turns around and sees a nervous looking dude standing in front of him.

“Hey man, can I borrow a lighter?”

Connor reaches into his jacket pocket to check, he gets about halfway when suddenly a knee is making direct contact with his diaphragm. He doubles over in shock and pain, earning him a sharp elbow to the small of his back and then another pair of hands are grabbing him by the shoulders and hauling him into the gutter. Curled up like a woodlouse Connor holds his breath as kicks and blows come flying out at him from apparently nowhere each strike feeling like a tiny death as his insides are pummelled against the damaged shell of his feeble fleshy cage. His assaulters are wearing boots and totally unbidden the thought comes into Connor’s head about this guy he fucked once and the part that was played by the toe of his Doc Marten and bloody hell _that_ hurt in the morning but this, well, this is a new level. By the time the guys are done his lungs are complaining and his whole left side feels like it’s on _fire._ Connor tries to whisper swear words whilst remaining mindful of his bruised ribs as Nervous Guy & Co crouch down to search Connor’s clothes, reaching into his jacket for his phone and wallet. Connor just has time to utter an unconvincing string of profanities as Nervous Guy & Co cast fleeting looks over their shoulders and sprint off down the road before being swallowed up by the orange lamp-lit darkness.

Connor waits until they are well and truly disappeared plus a little extra before making a calculated decision to move which, you know, turns out to be a mistake; he rolls to the side, managing to crush all twelve ribs on one side in the process steam roller style along with gaining himself a face full of abandoned garbage. Groaning in pain he manages to heave himself to his feet, staggers and nearly collapses once again into the trash. Eventually though he finds his balance and with an amazing, superhuman effort is able to channel his body forward out of the gutter.

Connor has never been mugged before. Despite the obvious crap pile of a situation that this is he is not so filled with righteous wrath that he cannot appreciate the unique strangeness of the sensation. The alcohol has slowed down his vision and reactions so much that the world around him is swimming, an indistinct blur of nightlights and cigarette smoke but the adrenaline in his veins mixing with what’s left of the cocaine has made him hyper-aware and his senses are buzzing. the pain also doesn’t hurt as much as it did on first impact having faded to a dull sort of ache, he lifts up his shirt and sees a patchwork blossoming of blue and purple spreading across his upper abdomen, like a map of the subway.

Ok: time to strategise. One look at the burly I’m-not-to-be-messed-with-son bouncer tells Connor that going back inside and looking for Dan/Doug/another member of the entourage is not an option, which is fine by Connor really, he’s not crazy about spending the rest of the evening with a guy who’s name he can’t even remember sober. Which means seeking aid from another source: the guys took his phone but by squinting and leaning his head to the left Connor can make out a pay phone sitting in a pool of heavenly light across the street. He fishes in his pockets praying for a miracle and discovers with glee some leftover change from his entry to the club amounting to about 50¢. Gripping it tightly in his palm he wonders over the phone, running the options through his mind.

The obvious choice would be Michaela. They’ve gotten each other out of (and into) more than a few tight spots by now and strictly speaking she owes him one _(turning up at midnight with a bottle of very expensive vodka, no doubt nicked from a certain lawyer’s certain desk drawer with mascara down her face screaming “All I wanted was the world!!”)_ but strictly speaking Michaela is not in the best mood with him at the moment and he figures he should probably not test his luck by cashing in that favour just yet. That leaves the rest of the Murder Squad but if his substance duped instincts are correct they’re none too happy with him for skiving their little study group without expressly handing in his excuses beforehand.

There’s Asher but…no.

Which leaves one person left to call…and Connor really, really doesn’t want to call him.

Then again what choice does he have, none really, Connor has always prided himself on being somewhat of a loner he doesn’t really do friends/boyfriends/friends at all just acquaintances like Dan/Doug who are more than up for a night out or a quick fuck but head for the hills the moment things start to get too serious. And Connor likes that, there’s safety in that. But it does mean that when he does find himself in a tight spot, here being, this one, his choices in the “cry for help” department are somewhat narrowed.

and then there’s the fact that the last time they saw each other, Oliver punched him in the face.

That was a while ago though, he’ll be over it by now, Connor is, his nose barely squeaks anymore when he breathes. Plus it’s pretty dark, he’s fairly wasted, there’s a couple of less than friendly-looking silhouettes at the other end of the street and, as previously mentioned, he has no other choice so fuck it. Connor jabs in the number, holds the receiver to his ear and then holds his breath.

_Bee-beep. Bee-beep. Bee-beep –_

**hello**

and you know it has been a while, you’d have thought Connor’s stomach would have quit lurching at the tinniest echo of a voice by now

“Dude it’s Connor,” says Connor then adds quickly “Don’t hang up.”

**are you serious? do you know what time it is?**

“Late I know,” this is actually the fullest extent of Connor’s knowledge. “So I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t serious, right?”

**…**

**what do you want**

and if Connor wants to cry a little bit at the flat done-ness of his tone then there’s no one there to test him on that

“Don’t be mad,” he says, trying not to sound pleading. “But I kind of need your help.”

oOo

Oliver keeps him waiting and Connor cannot really blame him for this. He has learned subsequently that the time is actually 3:48 in the morning and unlike a law student Oliver actually has his life together, as well as the added benefits of a functioning body clock. Oh yeah, and he hates him.

By the time Connor makes out the headlights of Oliver’s car, shining like a beacon through the darkness he has sobered up quite a lot. The drugs have largely worn off but for the aftershocks of adrenaline, leaving Connor shivering like a bastard in the freezing night air. He can hear his teeth chattering as Oliver draws up by the curb beside him and he stuffs his sweating palms into the pockets of his jacket.

Oliver winds down the window and his eyes flit briefly over Connor’s shaking form. “Get in.”

Almost overwhelmed with gratitude, Connor goes round to the other side of the car, opens the door and climbs in.

Oliver does not look at him, not immediately. Instead he looks at his rear view mirror and reverses carefully out of the space he’s parked in. Connor swallows the anxiety-induced liquid rising in his throat and tries to scrunch up his body so as to take up as little space as possible.

Once Oliver is safely out of the taxi-and-drunk-constipated street he addresses Connor, still without looking at him: “So, you got mugged?”

Connor nods, trying not to wish that Oliver might try for a little more concern. “Yeah.”

“Are you hurt badly? Do you need to go to a hospital?”

Connor shakes his head then stops abruptly, realising that this classifies as A Bad Idea. “Nah, I’m ok.”

“What did they take? Besides your phone, obviously.”

“My wallet,” Connor replies dully. There wasn’t anything in there particularly apart from all his bank cards and a couple of hundred in cash and his ID and his whole life, basically.

Oliver says nothing, his obligatory, good-person check-up concluded. His eyes flit almost imperceptibly back to the rear-view mirror and Connor’s responses are too fucked to repress the uncontrollable grin currently eating his face at the familiar action. He remembers ripping into Oliver mercilessly about his ridiculous caution, his “old-man-with-an-expired-permit” driving, so much so that Oliver would occasionally freak out and narrowly avoid hitting a truck or something and Connor would wind down the window so that the motorway could hear him pissing himself laughing. And, his grin broadening, he’s pretty sure that Oliver remembers it too because while he glances at the mirror twice more in the next twenty seconds his head doesn’t move.

This crazy silence is a lot less fun than the memory. Connor feels the smile slide bit by bit off his face with each passing moment. He winds down the window, flooding the car with city sounds; loud drunken voices raised in indignation, music coming from clubs, car tires screeching against tarmac their rubber damp with the rain that’s just starting to smear the windscreen, the slide of the wipers thundering against the glass. City sounds man, they’re what he stays alive for. He closes his eyes and drops his head against the car seat, breathing in the cold air and the car exhaust fumes and the cigarettes.

They draw up at a set of traffic lights, the ruby glow splaying off the water in infinite directions like many bleeding suns. Oliver taps out an anxious beat on the leather of the steering wheel, his gaze fixed pointedly forward. He could look at Connor now, if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to. Connor feels kind of like a slicing pain just beneath his third rib. But he’s a tenacious being and you know, someone’s got to break the tension or at least the silence. “Thanks for coming out to get me and all.”

“Hmmf.”

“I really mean it, man. You didn’t have to pick up your phone and you did and that means a lot.”

Oliver’s throat makes a little movement, like he’s not quite sure whether Connor’s trying to get a rise out of him or not. “Well. I’m sure I was a last resort.”

Connor opens his mouth to reply and closes it again, unsure if there’s a double meaning behind that or not. He sits there glumly for a few moments, running responses through his mind before settling on the safest. “I really didn’t want to bother you, man.”

“And yet somehow it happens.”

and there’s not really much to say to that so Connor gives up. The light switches to green and Oliver checks his rear view mirror before changing gear, meanwhile Connor returns to sticking his head back out the window. The speed ruffles his hair, drying out the sweat and he can feel little flecks of rain on his cheek, like tiny kisses from God.

“Are you going to be sick?” asks Oliver. “If you’re going to be sick, I’d prefer it if you told me. So that I can like, stop the car.”

Connor sighs and removes his head from the Lord’s caress. “No dude,” he says heavily. “I’m not going to be sick.”

Oliver takes Connor’s word for it and Connor resorts to simply gazing out the window so as not to disturb his delicate sensibilities. A hooker argues with his drug dealer. A young couple hide from the rain in a bus shelter. The world flashes by in a blur of colour and sound.

oOo

They park outside Oliver’s building, Oliver slamming the car door aggressively and Connor stumbling out. Partly it’s the cocktails still in his system and partly it’s the shock of familiarity that hits him like a sledgehammer as he gazes up at the grey, concrete monstrosity that had been his home a whole of a year ago but suddenly he feels pretty unsteady on his feet. He walks in a wavering line to the stairs leading up to the front door (which keeps _moving_ for fucksake) and places a steadying hand on the railing to stop him from falling-

which does not work incidentally-

his sole catches the very edge of the step and fails to claim further ground, the sweating palm on the railing slips with it and suddenly he is very much falling backwards, his head sure to land on the sidewalk below and split open like a crushed nut over a chocolate fondue, spilling light and grey matter in equal measure

And suddenly there is a hand closing around the arm of his jacket. Oliver is catching him, Oliver is holding him, Oliver is holding him in his arms. Connor can feel his heart through the thin cotton of his shirt, it beats against his back. His grip tightens, the skin over the knuckles pulled taut against the material as the skin of their necks brush and warmth radiates through his body, heating his blood.

Connor has never been more ok with the idea of dying.

Then Oliver releases him and they are apart. “Careful,” he says and at least his voice is a little softer.

Oliver helps him up the steps and then up the stairs to his apartment. Connor is unsurprised to see that the lift is still broken although it does unnerve him somewhat. The building is so unchanged, so perfectly the same as the last time Connor was here as if that part of his life were frozen in time, suspended in animation. Brick and cement, they’re built to last and it’s only people who change, people and events. As Oliver huffs with the strain of Connor’s weight Connor remembers helping Oliver up these same stairs as he babbled nonsense and pulled his tie and attempted to land kisses on his neck: _I want us to be boyfriends again!_

They reach the apartment, finally. Oliver wrestles with the door and it swings open and Connor feels a breath stick in his throat, gazing round at the familiar furnishings like one of the little British children who find a kingdom inside a closet. Oliver releases him, heading over to the kitchen and putting on the kettle before removing coffee from a top cupboard. Connor staggers over to the dining table and crashes into one of the tiny plastic white chairs, courtesy of IKEA like everything they could afford at that time.

The sound of the boiling kettle fills the apartment and with a bleary eye, Connor glances round. As per Oliver everything is spotless, he always was a stickler for hygiene but for some reason the place looks a lot cleaner than it was when Connor lived here. _Correlation or causation_ , Connor wonders dully. It also seems a little colder; this could have something to do with the fact that Connor is still shivering, or it might be the way that Oliver is looking at him from across the room, like his entire presence is an ugly stain on Oliver’s clean, white kitchen furniture.

“Do you still take it black?” he asks once the hissing has stopped.

Connor nods. “I’m still a lawyer.”

Oliver makes a sound and Connor waits for the usual _ffs Connor stop telling people you’re a lawyer you are not a lawyer you are a student and you are poor_ but it doesn’t come. He pours the coffee and hands it to Connor in a mug with a dancing tooth on it that he got free from the dentist’s. And in hindsight caffeine is probably not what Connor needs right now but goddammit his head hurts and his vision sways and fuck it, caffeine is exactly what Connor needs right now. He takes a sip, savouring the rich smell of pretentious, fancy beans and warmth floods through every fibre of his being. Oliver watches him, fingers curling round the rim of his pussy herbal tea. There’s less malice in his gaze but the intense scrutiny makes Connor feel uncomfortable and a little hot. He drinks his coffee quickly, blinking through the heat.

“So,” says Oliver once Connor has put down his mug, eyes watering. “Are we gonna talk about this?”

Heat creeps up Connor’s neck like an itchy, synthetic scarf. “Talk about what?”

“Like, the fact that after a year of almost zero contact, you called me out of nowhere at 3 in the morning having literally just been beaten into the gutter,” replies Oliver, eyeing the bruise that promises a glorious black eye in the morning. “And…I don’t know…maybe your current state?”

Connor groans and, choosing to ignore that first part, rubs at his eyes. “What about my current state.”

“Drugs, Connor? You told me that wasn’t true-”

“-It _wasn’t.”_

“So this, then,” he gestures at the white, powdery substance still streaked across Connor’s t-shirt. “What is this, baking soda?”

“Dude, it was a one-off, alright? I don’t have a drug problem.”

“I talked to Michaela.”

Connor’s eyeballs roll back into his skull. He puts his head into his hands so Oliver will not have to see this bizarre phenomenon. “Why would you do that.”

“She told me that you’ve been out nearly every night these past few months. That you keep turning up at her place _high.”_

“Oh my God. She has literally been stealing booze from our boss.”

“Connor,” Oliver’s hand makes an odd jerking movement, moving a few inches across the table as if meaning to grasp Connor’s before thinking better of it and stopping halfway. Connor frowns down at it, curled and pointless on the plastic table surface. Oliver notices too and a flicker of embarrassment passes over his face although he leaves his hand where it is.

“What’s going on with you?” he asks finally.

“Nothing’s going on with me,” Connor responds dully, his words automatic.

“Are you taking your meds? I was talking to the GP the other day, he said it’s quite common for people with CFS to resort to cocaine and with your anxiety as well you really should-”

“This has nothing to do with my fucking CFS,” Connor snaps. “And you know what would be really fucking swell, is if people would stop linking drug use to mental illness, like, 24/7 that song has been pretty fucking overplayed dude.”

“Ok, ok,” Connor raises his hands off the table in a way that’s supposed to be calming. “I’m sorry. But come on Connor, look at yourself. You’re a literal, physical mess.”

Connor scowls at him because first of all, how dare he. “Yeah, and who’s fault is that?”

Oliver’s eyes narrow and suddenly the hardness is back; Connor should really have stopped that one from falling out his mouth but who knows, maybe those guys took his sense of self-preservation as well. “Don’t you dare,” says Oliver, his voice deadly quiet. “Don’t you _dare_ put this on me. Whatever shit you’re in Connor, whatever mess you’ve made of your life that’s on _you,_ ok, no one else. You chose to help bury the body ok, you chose not to go to the police that night. You chose to fuck me, you chose to fuck Pax. You chose to run from the Hapstalls’. You chose to lie to me: once, twice, three times. And then you chose to lie to me _again._ So don’t act like you’re the victim in this. You’re not a fucking victim.”

His hand is shaking as he raises the mug to his lips, the camomile inside is cooling fast. Connor looks away so he doesn’t have to see how damp and shiny Oliver’s eyes have become. He can deal with Oliver’s anger, it kind of amuses him in the way that kittens with wrath are funny. But hurt, well, that just serves to remind Connor what an asshole he is.

Connor’s not sure what to do with all this though so he just kind of finishes his coffee and looks interestedly up at the leaks in the ceiling while Oliver gets to his feet and crashes his mug into the dishwasher. He goes into the next room and fishes out an old t-shirt and some joggers, chucking them unceremoniously at Connor.

“Put them on,” he orders him bluntly. “I’ll find you some blankets.”

Connor takes the clothes and Oliver disappears because continuous exposure to Connor may result in toxic poisoning. But as brimming with self-deprecation as Connor is, he can’t help but feel a little resentment as he shakes out the t-shirt and joggers (which smell like Oliver, in case you were wondering) because, yeah as we have all agreed Connor is a Grade A dick-clown piece of orange vomit but also, _also_ Oliver broke his heart. And he realises it was in retaliation for doing the same, but, like, that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Oliver comes back into the room, a blanket thrown over one arm and a pillow clutched in the other. Connor has taken off his shirt and jeans and is standing only in his boxers. He watches, not without a little cruelty, the swallow travelling down Oliver’s gullet as his eyes wander over all of Connor for the first time in a year.

“Oh you’ll look at me now,” says Connor and Oliver’s eyes snap back up to his face.

“Shut up,” Oliver mutters and Connor snickers.

Oliver bends over to make up the bed and Connor stands back so as to stare more effectively at his backside. It is as small and pert as he has so often recreated in and out of dreaming. Against the thin cloth of his boxers, his dick twitches with interest. He thinks about Oliver catching him on the stairway, the heat of his blood and the quick exhale of breath against his collar bone. He thinks about bending Oliver over the edge of the couch, forcing his face into the pillow as he pounds into him, one hand grasped round the back of his neck. His cock stirs again and it is then that Connor realises he is suddenly super, super horny _._ His quickie hook up in the Revs bathroom feels like a lifetime ago.

Oliver straightens up and incidentally so does Connor. Oliver notices obviously, as he is not blind. His eyes widen. Connor does the corner lip half-smirk and sort of flicks his hair out of the way in a quasi-Superman pose.

“You’re a pervert,” Oliver tells him.

Connor shrugs indifferently and makes a Renaissance gesture pointing up at the ceiling: _Only God will judge me._ “What can I say? I’m a man of great appetite.”

“Fine, but something tells me you’ve already eaten,” Oliver retorts with a raised eyebrow. When Connor doesn’t reply he makes a scoffing sound. “At least tell me you used protection.”

lol Connor never wears an apron.

We’ve gone through anger, hurt, malice now there is a very different look in Oliver’s eye and Connor knows it well. Connor’s smirk grows as he takes a few steps towards Oliver, a shiver of glee shooting through him as the latter stands his ground. He can see the lines of muscle faintly through Oliver’s t-shirt, just above where the fabric bunches round his perfect little hips. He draws closer until their chests are inches apart; he can hear Oliver’s breathing, can almost feel the reverberations of his frantically beating heart.

“How long has it been hmm?” he croons softly, lifting his hands to place them at either side of Oliver’s waist.

Oliver doesn’t answer but that’s chill, his shaking body kind of speaks for him. Connor once accused Oliver of being a “sexual camel” but even so, six months is a long time to wait for any manner of creature. Connor’s hands move casually to cup his backside, his thumbs skirting the jean-clad cleft and Oliver makes an odd movement and an even odder noise, squirming while pushing himself down simultaneously. Connor chuckles, making rubbing motions against the denim. “And you call me a slut.”

Oliver’s breathing is coming short and fast, Connor can feel his pulse racing. With the reflexes of a much soberer man Connor’s hands dart to the front of Oliver’s jeans and focus on feeding the leather out of the buckle of his belt before going to work on his fly. Oliver takes a step back but Connor yanks him forward by the hoop of his jeans and their mouths clash together in a dirty kiss with too much teeth.

Connor bites and Oliver moans, it is very quickly suppressed. Then Connor slips a hand inside Oliver’s boxers. There is a reaction, a strong one, and Oliver pushes him away.

“You’re drunk,” he states and wipes his mouth. He looks disgusted, whether with Connor or himself Connor cannot say.

“I’m not that drunk,” Connor lies. “And if I am that’s your fault too, I’ve been drunk since the moment I met you.”

Oliver does not reply. Sighing, Connor grabs the t-shirt and joggers and yanks them on. He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair. He’s heard of things like this happening of course, who hasn’t; at some point God or Karma or whatever decided it’d had too much of Connor’s shit and began to set events in motion. Every decision that Connor has made since answering Dan/Doug’s “?” with a double thumbs up has led him deeper and deeper into the whirlwind tragicomedy his life has henceforth become. He feels like a kid who jumped on a sled because it seemed like a good idea, only the breaks aren’t working and now he couldn’t stop himself from hurtling towards disaster if he tried.

Thinking about it, Connor’s whole life has been one horrifying nightmare of a sled ride.

Oliver’s arms are crossed defensively over his chest, fortifying the barrier that was already thrown up between the two of them. For a while the two just look at each other, neither saying anything. Outside the city sounds breathe in through the open window, the watery orange light of the streetlamps trickling down the glass out the corner of an eye and the world goes on around them while inside this apartment, with the cheap blue clock ticking on the wall against the gentle hum of the refrigerator both time and people stand still.

Oliver breaks the silence and Connor is glad because his eyeballs are beginning to prick (his nose is running too but who knows, that could be what’s left of the cocaine) “You should get some sleep,” he says.

Connor tries to snort derisively in a way that’s supposed to confer something along the lines of _“five hours of living death cannot fix all that is broken in me”_ but ends up turning into a sneeze. He’s probably going to die of pneumonia.

The bed is made; he crawls into it and tries to imagine that he is a tiny insect being swallowed up by the soft green embrace of a loving Universe. Oliver hovers by the light, flicks the switch. The room is plunged into darkness but for a few electronic lights blinking from the phone and television set.

“You know where I am,” Oliver’s voice. “If you need anything else.”

Connor nods because it’s too painful to talk. His throat is all closed up and his eyes are swimming, he blinks fiercely even as Oliver retreats from the living room, closing the door softly behind him.

He gazes up at the ceiling, listening to the footsteps fade away. The spinning in his head has slowed and he waits for the world to still before he closes his eyes. He falls asleep to the sound of sirens.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any incorrect Americanisms, I tried my best. I don't even know what a "¢" is, let alone how much a payphone costs in the US (i did a google i hope it's right)  
> say hi on [tumblr](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/)


End file.
